Whofe wit well managed, and whofe claffic ftyle,
Give truth a luftre, and make wifdom fmile.
Friends (for I cannot ftint, as fome have done,
Too rigid in my view, that name to one;
Though one, I grant it, in the generous breast
Will ftand advanced a ftep above the reft:
Flowers by that name promifcuously we call,
But one, the rofe, the regent of them all)—
Friends, not adopted with a school-boy's hafte,
But chofen with a nice difcerning taste,
Well-born, well-difciplined, who, placed apart
From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart,
And, though the world may think the ingredients odd,
The love of virtue, and the fear of God!
Such friends prevent what else would foon fucceed,
A temper ruftic as the life we lead,
And keep the polish of the manners clean,
As their's, who buftle in the busieft scene;
For folitude, however fome may rave,
Seeming a fanctuary, proves a grave,
A fepulchre, in which the living lie,
Where all good qualities grow fick and die.
I praise the Frenchman *, his remark was fhrewd-
How fweet, how paffing sweet, is folitude!
But grant me ftill a friend in my retreat,
Whom I may whisper-folitude is tweet.
Yet neither thefe delights, nor aught befide,
That appetite can afk, or wealth provide,
Can fave us always from a tedious day,
Or fhine the dulnefs of ftill life away;
Divine communion, carefully enjoyed,
Or fought with energy, muft fill the void.
Oh facred art, to which alone life owes
Its happieft seasons, and a peaceful close,
Scorned in a world, indebted to that fcorn
For evils daily felt and hardly borne,
Not knowing thee, we reap with bleeding hands
Flowers of rank odour upon thorny lands,
And, while experience cautions us in vain,
Grafp feeming happiness, and find it pain.
Defpondence, felf-deferted in her grief,
Loft by abandoning her own relief,
Murmuring and ungrateful difcontent,
That fcorns afflictions mercifully meant,
Those humours tart as wines upon the fret,
Which idlenefs and wearinefs beget;
These, and a thoufand plagues, that haunt the breast,
Fond of the phantom of an earthly reft,
Divine communion chases, as the day
Drives to their dens the obedient beafts of prey.
See Judah's promised king, bereft of all,
Driven out an exile from the face of Saul,
To diftant caves the lonely wanderer flies,
To feek that peace a tyrant's frown denies.
Hear the fweet accents of his tuneful voice,
Hear him, overwhelmed with forrow, yet rejoice;
No womanish or wailing grief has part,
No, not a moment, in his royal heart;
'Tis manly mufic, fuch as martyrs make,
Suffering with gladness for a Saviour's fake;
His foul exults, hope animates his lays,
The fenfe of mercy kindles into praise,
And wilds, familiar with a lion's roar,
Ring with ecftatic founds unheard before:
'Tis love like his, that can alone defeat
The foes of man, or make a defert fweet.
Religion does not cenfure or exclude
Unnumbered pleasures harmfefsly pursued;
To ftudy culture, and with artful toil
To meliorate and tame the ftubborn foil;
To give diffimilar yet fruitful lands
The grain, or herb, or plant, that each demands;
To cherish virtue in an humble state,
And share the joys your bounty may create;
To mark the matchlefs workings of the power,
That fhuts within its feed the future flower,
Bids thefe in elegance of form excel,
In colour these, and those delight the smell,
Sends nature forth the daughter of the skies,
To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes;
To teach the canvafs innocent deceit,
Or lay the landscape on the fnowy sheet-
Thefe, thefe are arts pursued without a crime,
That leave no ftain upon the wing of time.
Me poetry (or rather notes that aim
Feebly and vainly at poetic fame)
Employs, fhut out from more important views,
Faft by the banks of the flow winding Oufe;
Content if thus fequeftered I may raise
A monitor's, though not a poet's praise,
And while I teach an art too little known,
To clofe life wifely, may not wafte my own.
TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX.
Verfes addreffed to a Country Clergyman complaining of the difagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the Dues at the Parfonage.
COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong,
The troubles of a worthy priest
The burden of my fong.
This prieft he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of a year,
But oh! it cuts him like a fithe,
When tithing time draws near.
He then is full of fright and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a figh.
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